Mosh pit parents

When I am 60 I hope I am as much of a fox as Stevie Nicks. Or Lindsey Buckingham, for that matter. Stevie rocked her tambourine and long blond hair like it was still the 70's (although I hear she now keeps a PT on staff to help with an old shoulder injury that sometimes gets in the way of the tambourine shaking...possibly the hair shaking, too) and Lindsey was jumping around the stage with the energy of a middle schooler at his first dance. Growing up, Dad and I used to listen to the greatest hits album on the way up to the cabin so I was pumped to see them live with him, too. (Camera phone pic at the concert)

Aside from the amazing music, Mom was convinced that security thought we were terrorists. She was in top form, let me tell you. It started when I was the last one through the gate. She asked what took me so long and I told her they had to do an extensive search of my purse because they thought I had contraband. Her eyes got huge and she said, "Caley! What did you have in your purse? Why would you bring contraband to a concert?" It took about five minutes to convince her I was kidding, there was no contraband, there never had been, and security never accused me of having any.

Eventually we made our way to section 219 where our seats were waiting for us in the top row of the upper level. A venue worker stopped us and said in a hushed voice, "How many are there in your group?"
"Four! There are four!" I said, getting excited as I saw him reach for his pocket to pull out what I hoped were tickets for better seats. Mom gasped and took a step back.
I was right. The next thing he said was, "I have four seats in the lower level, do you want them?" Mom, however, was wrong because apparently she thought we had been randomly selected for an extensive security screening which may or may not involve a strip search in a room with bars on the windows. Somehow she has international flying confused with concert going.

Sitting in our lower level row 14 seats I couldn't help but enjoy the view of the woman in front of me with a sleeveless denim shirt and the most magnificent mullet I've seen outside of rural Minnesota in a long time. The guy rocking out with his sleeves cut off, two beers, and a gas station hat was the only one who had the potential to eclipse her. In the middle of one of their head banging dances I felt a tap on my shoulder. "Psst. Caley."
"You don't have to whisper, Mom. It's Fleetwood Mac."
"Oh, well, is that the mosh pit?" she asked, pointing to the floor seats where the largely baby boomer crowd was sitting (key word: sitting) and singing along with Stevie.
"No, Mom, there is no mosh pit here."
"Well why not?"
"It isn't like an orchestra pit. There isn't one built in..."

The final highlight of the night happened when I snuck out of my seat to hit the bathroom and passed a girl being detained by the cops. "It isn't like it's fucking poison. What's the big fucking deal?" I'm still not sure if she was talking about the band, Poison, or some kind of illegal substance that was in the purse one of the cops was holding for her but either way, it was the perfect end to the night.

Sweet, sweet music

"I'm going to the mall this weekend. I need some retail therapy."
"Nice, I can't. I have to save my money. I'm buying a piano this weekend."
"What? I was thinking a cute top, not a musical instrument that doubles as a piece of furniture!"

For hours Saturday afternoon I visited old pieces of music that hadn't been played in years. The cat watched from the top of the corner built in cabinets, confused by the new sounds bouncing around the living room.
Sunday I told myself I couldn't play until all of the leaves were cleared from the yard. Fifteen trash bags later, which is an impressive number considering I don't actually have any trees in my yard, I started picking up my tools with one thing on my mind: the piano. With my fingers distracted by Pachelbel's cords I didn't even notice when they closed around the bee sunning itself on the roll of leftover bags. I did notice when the little bugger, excuse the pun, stung me right in the middle of my palm. I yelped, Ebbie came running, and the bee flopped death flops on the floor.
My first bee sting. Mom told me to use baking soda, Google said toothpaste, and John the paramedic swore by meat tenderizer. The only thing that worked was ice. Of course, my makeshift icepack, aka a plastic baggie with ice cubes in it, burst in the middle of the night and I woke up in a puddle. Yesterday was no better but today, today I think I might be able to practice again. I hope. Stupid bees.

Trade-offs

I have a friend.
His name is Dan.
He is in a band.
We used to salsa together.
In Spain.
On random stages in the park.

And we listened to music.
Lots.
While drinking beer that tasted like a brick wall.
On the ground.
In my plaza surrounded by roses.
With Chey at night.
It was great.

Recently the social monster that is facebook has brought us back into closer contact and I found myself with a dilemma...
Talking to Dan on a regular basis made me miss him more, but I so enjoy him that I didn't want to stop talking to him.
I decided it was worth the pain to keep in touch (which he thanked me for) and we have been chatting a few times a week. One thing I HEART about Dan is that he has an awesome knowledge base of music, and all sorts of music at that. He is a very talented musician himself but he also has a knack for knowing what music a person might enjoy or even need. When living in Madrid we often loaded up our respective flash drives, met at the fountain of a plaza, and traded mixes filled with great songs. Everything from CCR to Ben Harper to remixes he did himself.
Now that he home in Philly and I am, well, not, it makes trading music a bit harder. We have still managed...I him told about the new Jason Mraz album (which he now loves), and he just sent me Ryan Adams, "Easy Tiger" (which I now love). I suppose we'll have to settle for zipped files and facebook chat instead of hanging out in the plaza with my ipod drinking Mahou with Chey.